


The One Where Joffrey Baratheon's Car Gets Egged

by rachelisnotcool



Series: That Weirdly Specific Canadian University AU [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, domestic abuse, nothing too graphic but please tread carefully if that's something you're sensitive to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelisnotcool/pseuds/rachelisnotcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya wakes to the sound of creaking steps and soft crying. She groans, rolls off her dead arm, and looks over at the clock. 2:49 AM. She hears a door shut quietly and the soft crying becomes sobbing.</p><p>Well, she thinks, I certainly won’t be able to sleep through that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Joffrey Baratheon's Car Gets Egged

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, fuck that guy.
> 
> (This is a prequel of sorts to The One Where Sansa's A Music Major And Margaery's Kind Of A Pretentious Asshole. I tried to stick mainly to what Sansa said in that fic, but I took some creative liberties here and there.)

2:49 AM.

 

Arya wakes to the sound of creaking steps and soft crying. She groans, rolls off her dead arm, and looks over at the clock. She hears a door shut quietly and the soft crying becomes sobbing.

 

_Well,_ she thinks, _I certainly won’t be able to sleep through that._

 

With a sigh and a strange feeling in her gut that she can't quite place, Arya drags herself out of bed, throws on a school sweatshirt, and shuffles her way across the hallway.

 

She pauses. She’s heard (and been the cause of) Sansa’s crying more times than she can count, but Sansa’s always done the quiet type of crying, the type where her bottom lip quivers and silent tears stream down her face. The crying she hears on the other side of the door barely even sounds human, let alone like Sansa.

 

“Sansa?” she calls as she rubs the sleep from her eyes, knocking on the door. There’s a sudden, choked stop to the crying.

 

“Just a minute!” calls Sansa’s cracking, and Arya can hear her scampering around her room, probably trying to fix her running mascara.

 

Arya waits ten seconds for Sansa to put on a t-shirt or a robe or something. “I’m coming in,” she declares, pushing the door open and looking around the room. Sansa hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights. Only the faint glow of the moon and streetlights, pouring into the open window from outside, illuminate the room.

 

Sansa is standing at her mirror, which she’s attached a small book light to, holding a makeup brush and her concealer. She looks uncharacteristically guilty.

 

“Could you like, keep it down, or something?” Arya asks. She expects Sansa to retort, rudely and sarcastically, about Arya’s clothes or boyfriend or life choices, but Sansa just nods meekly and puts her head down.

 

“Sure,” she says, and Arya can tell from the familiar break in her voice that she’s seconds away from crying.

 

“What’s gotten into you?” Arya asks, “I mean, I know you’re vain, but putting on makeup at 3 AM is a little much, even for you.”

 

Sansa nods but doesn’t say anything. She wraps her cardigan around herself and sits down on the bed. Her hair hangs down over the left side of her face. Arya sits down next to her and touches her arm. Sansa flinches at the contact.

 

“Are you okay?” Arya says. “I can get Mom if you want.”

 

“No,” Sansa chokes out. “Please don’t do that.”

 

“Okay,” says Arya, and she sits in silence next to Sansa for another minute. “Do you want to call Brienne?” she asks. Sansa shakes her head. “Jeyne?” Another shake. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“No,” says Sansa, “there’s nothing you can do.” She looks over at Arya desperately. “Just don’t tell anyone about this.”

 

“About what?”

 

Sansa looks terrified, like she’s said too much.

 

“Hey,” says Arya, tucking Sansa’s hair behind her ear. Arya sees Sansa flinch, then sees the dark purples and browns and blues that have sprung up around Sansa’s left eye. Arya swallows. “Who did this to you?” she asks, suddenly angry.

 

“No one,” Sansa says. “I-- I fell.”

 

Arya surveys her for a moment. She runs through the possibilities in her head. Jeyne is much too soft to ever do anything like this. Brienne probably could, but would die before doing it. Her eyes wander to a polaroid (Sansa and her fucking polaroids, she thinks almost affectionately) of Sansa kissing Joffrey Baratheon on the cheek. Sansa insists they’re only friends, and Joffrey is dating some other girl, but she has been out an awful lot...

 

“Was it Joffrey?”

 

Sansa’s face falls and she starts crying again. “Please, Arya,” she says, “you can’t tell anyone.”

 

“Has this happened before?” Arya asks.

 

“Yeah,” says Sansa weakly. “But it’s over. We’re over. I ended it.”

 

“And that made him do this?”

 

Sansa nods once, then collapses into Arya’s arms, crying still. Arya holds her awkwardly. “Please, Arya,” Sansa sobs into her shoulder, “you can’t tell anyone. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.”

 

“Alright,” Arya agrees reluctantly. “I won’t tell.”

 

* * *

 

3:41 AM.

 

Arya’s hands are numb by the time she reaches the convenience store where Jon works. She pushes the door open and the bell chimes. Jon startles and wakes abruptly from his nap on the checkout counter.

 

“Arya?” he asks, “what are you--”

 

“I need to buy all of your eggs,” says Arya matter-of-factly, pulling out a fifty dollar bill and handing it to JON.

 

“Uh, what for?” Jon asks, glancing at Mackenzie King’s slightly unsettlingly profile.

 

“Stuff,” says Arya evasively. “Where are the eggs?”

 

“The fridge. But what do you need them for? Last I checked, you weren’t one for baking.” He thinks of the last time Arya baked anything, which had resulted in a ruined stove, a fire, and a dead house cat.

 

“I’m not baking,” she says. “I’m egging some dick’s car.”

 

“Oh,” says Jon. “Carry on, then.”

 

* * *

 

4:42 AM.

 

By the time Arya lugs her bag of eggs to the Baratheon household, it’s nearly 5 AM. She stops and rubs at her eyes. She supposes she’ll just have to drink a Monster the next day.

 

She identifies Joffrey’s car almost immediately. She’s seen it several times before, picking up Sansa or driving around with the roof down and Blink-182 blaring. It’s a nice convertible, and Arya wonders how much it must have cost as she opens the first box of eggs.

 

“Fuck you!” she screeches at nothing, throwing egg after egg at Joffrey’s stupid car. It’s fifty dollars well spent, she thinks. She works her way into a sort of rhythm of opening boxes and throwing. It’s almost soothing.

 

And then the door to the house opens, and Cersei Lannister comes stomping out in a towel with a look of pure shock and indignation, which turns quickly to murder. Arya pulls up her hood, drops her half empty box of eggs, and sprints, not stopping until she reaches home, where she promptly passes out.

 

* * *

 

7:55 AM.

 

The local news does a segment on the unknown egg vandal the next day. The entire town is as bewildered as Cersei Lannister.

 

Sansa never mentions it again, but when Arya wakes up, she finds a still steaming mug of coffee on her nightstand.

 


End file.
